


mongrel heart

by lovages



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha Sam, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Case Fic, Endverse Castiel - Freeform, M/M, Omega Dean, Omega Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovages/pseuds/lovages
Summary: Heaven is boarded up. The apocalypse is imminent. Castiel made his choice. He chose Dean Winchester. And that choice comes with complications.





	mongrel heart

Castiel is alone.

A flurry of wings makes him start, but it’s only a raven taking off into the purple dawn.

They threw him out. Heaven is boarded up, and his head is filled with a crushing silence. His brothers and sisters no longer whisper in the honeycomb chambers of their hivemind. Even at his most disconnected, being punished for disobedience, for getting too close to his charge, he hadn’t been cut off. He’d had the steady thrum of their awareness alongside his mind. But now, he’s made his choice.

He chose Dean Winchester.

Castiel checks the time on the cell phone Dean had handed him. 3:27 AM. For a dark, frightening moment, the futility of the situation overwhelms Castiel. It’s over.

Lucifer roams the earth, and the other Angels will not hear the cries for help. They will not come. God is in the wind, even more unreachable than the Angels. And Castiel has thrown in his lot with two very mortal, very human hunters. They’re well and truly alone, with a price on their heads. What is Castiel supposed to do? There’s no protocol for this. He has no idea where to begin.

This can’t wait. He calls Dean.

“You better be dying,” Dean growls by way of greeting.

“Where are you?” Castiel demands, pacing beside the railway tracks.

Dean groans.”Cas, it’s,” he pauses. The sheets rustle. “Three in the morning. Can’t this wait? I barely got two hours–”

“It cannot wait, Dean.”

The rush of Dean’s sigh is a short burst of static over the line. “DeKalb, Illinois. Travel Inn on thirty eight. Room’s one-three-one.”

Castiel hangs up and wings over. He lands a little unsteadily. Dean looks frazzled and exhausted, but he sits up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he croaks.

“The Angels are gone,” Castiel says bluntly. He feels a little dizzy, so he sits on the edge of the bed. His feet feel like they’re made of lead.

“Good riddance. Sounds like the opposite of a problem to me.”

“They’re gone, Dean. All gates to Heaven are sealed. Not even Reapers enter. Souls are stuck in limbo or fall to hell and corrupt. It’s over.”

Dean looks a little more awake now. “They can do that?”

“Yes, and they have.”

“What about the big showdown with the Devil?” Dean asks, looking confused. “What, Michael’s just gonna walk away?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean stares at him and then looks down, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs, haggard, and reaches for the beer on his nightstand. It’s empty.

“Figures,” he says bitterly, and tosses it in the trash can. He pushes the blankets aside and gets to his feet with a groan. “Alright. I’ll call Bobby. There’s gotta be lore or... something.” He tugs his pants on, hopping on one foot as he doesn’t quite manage to stay balanced. “‘Least we can regroup and come up with a game plan.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Castiel says, preparing to leave.

“Woah, wait,” Dean interrupts, alarmed. “You think that’s a good idea? You got enough juice to get by?”

Castiel considers this, assessing himself. “For now.”

He can feel the gravity of their situation settle on Dean’s shoulders. Dean goes a little pale, and scrubs a hand over his face and through his hair.

“What do you mean, for now?” he demands hoarsely. “You’re gonna run out? Are you telling me that every now and then you need to recharge your batteries but now this celestial charger or whatever’s boarded up in Heaven?"

Sometimes it’s complicated to extract the meaning behind Dean’s metaphors. In this case, it’s a nuisance. Castiel narrows his eyes. “Yes.”

“You’re sticking with me,” Dean decides, lifting his jacket off the back of a chair and tugging it on. “I’m gonna get some food, we’re gonna check out the case I came here for, and then we’re driving to Bobby’s.”

“Dean–” Castiel protests.

“I don’t wanna hear it Cas,” he growls, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “Until we figure out what’s going on with this Heaven stuff, you gotta sit tight. We got time. What we don't have is an endless supply of Angel steroids.”

Castiel clenches his jaw but follows Dean outside. They don’t have time for a case when there are much bigger things afoot. If Lucifer takes over the planet there won’t be cases to solve. There won’t be monsters to hunt. There won’t be towns to save. It’s always a struggle to get Dean to prioritize the bigger picture, but this time it’s especially frustrating.

Right now, Castiel simply has no idea what to do. The only reason he follows Dean instead of going off on his own to explore other avenues is because he has always had orders to follow, even if they were as vague and nebulous as the Righteous Man affirming, “We’ll figure this out.”

Right now, the only person Castiel feels tethered to is Dean Winchester.

Dean goes to check out, and the balding Indian man behind the motel’s reception desk snorts awake when Dean slaps the bell on his desk. Dean grins, but the beta mutters under his breath and glares balefully at them.

“The room was single occupancy,” he says. “Twenty bucks for an extra person.”

Dean glances at Castiel. “Come on, Ramesh. He just got here.”

Ramesh looks unconvinced, and continues to haggle over the amount Dean owes him. Castiel loses his patience and starts to step forward, but Dean shifts on his feet to block him from getting to the receptionist. “Alright, buddy, whatever. Just charge the card and point me to the nearest place I can grab some breakfast.”

Once Dean slides the card over, the man doesn’t dawdle. “IHOP’s across the street. Just past the Road Ranger.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Where’s the small town charm?”

“Asleep,” Ramesh says pointedly, glancing at his watch.

Castiel goes to stand by the car. If he can’t leave, he won’t be forced to listen to unnecessary conversation. Dean ducks out a few moments later, eyeing Castiel warily, but he doesn’t say anything. He slides in behind the driver’s seat.

“You okay, Cas?”

Castiel presses his lips together. “No, Dean. You are wasting time.”

“It’s not raining hellfire or brimstone on us yet, and I gotta eat,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “So hold your horses, alright?”  
  
Castiel waits in the car as Dean refuels at the gas station. By the time they pull into the parking lot of the IHOP, he feels impatient. It feels like Dean’s moving at a glacial pace on purpose. He bites his tongue when they walk in and Dean flirts with the waitress. An omega. The kind of girl Dean normally manages to charm successfully. She seats them at a booth and Dean orders an inordinate amount of food.

“You wanna try?” he asks, nudging the plate of biscuits closer to Castiel.

“I don’t eat.”

“I know that,” Dean says irritably. “You drank a beer, tried to get laid, remember that? Good times. Heaven’s closed up shop so you might as well live a little.”

Instead of dignifying that with a response, Castiel leans back against the vinyl seat and looks out the window.

“Fine,” Dean grumbles, pulling the plate closer to himself. “More for me.” He cuts through the short stack quickly, drenching it with a truly obscene amount of syrup.

“So,” he says, chewing away stickily at a huge bite. “Girl living in the apartment behind the motel was a student at the university here. No family or friends here, but kids from her classes know her. She had two weeks left on her lease when she snapped and went on a murder spree. The ones that survived said they saw her eyes turn black, smelled sulfur, the works.”

It’s obvious. “Possession.”

Dean nods. “I say we nab it and get some answers.”

“A demon is not going to know the way into Heaven. A reaper, perhaps…”

“No, not Heaven.” Dean has the audacity to look impatient. “That’s actually kind of a good thing. Michael took himself out. Now all we have to worry about’s the Devil. We get the demons, if not this demon, to tell us how to cram Lucifer back in hell. Or wherever.”

It’s the stupidest idea Castiel has heard from the Winchesters yet. “Is that why you came here?”

Dean shakes his head, and for once swallows before he replies. “No– well, sorta. A few reasons. It was more to get some intel in general. Try to figure out what's new, where the Colt is, blah blah.”

He picks up a biscuit, but his phone rings, so he sets it down and dusts his hand on his pants before answering. He identifies himself as Agent Costello. He listens for a few moments and says, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He looks up at Cas. “More bodies. And they think they’ve got a lead on the girl.”

The waitress eyes them nervously as they leave. She doesn’t smile. Dean makes sure to tip her handsomely, and winks on his way out. He calls Bobby and catches him up on the Heaven situation as he drives to the police station. It’s barely two minutes away.

Castiel looks up at the tower down the street from the police station. The sun begins to rise, and the sky blushes a sweet rose. All the buildings are squat, barely over two stories. Except for one.

“What is that?”

Dean turns his back to the tower and starts walking to the station. “It’s the student center. The upper floors are a hotel.”

“Agent Costello.” The beta officer meets them outside, looking frazzled. “I’m glad you could make it. Is this your partner?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says quickly. “This is Special Agent Novak. What do you got?”

Castiel remembers to fish out the badge and flash it. Dean’s shoulders relax a little.

The officer nods. “Well, it appears she was hiding out by the East Lagoon. Students trying to leave the campus reported being attacked, but we just got a call about a body. Matches her description.”

“Where?” Castiel demands.

“Outside one of the dorms– Gilbert Hall.”

“You got an address?” Dean asks.

The officer looks sheepish. “Oh. Right. I’m heading out there myself. Follow me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not a long drive. Nowhere in this town seems further than a two-minute drive. Castiel glances up and finds the tower looming over them no matter what road Dean takes. When they approach the scene, it’s already been cordoned off with police tape.

Dean parks beside the lawn and gets out of the car. He gets down on his haunches to study the body.

“That’s her,” he confirms.

“Looks like a gunshot to the head took her down,” the medical examiner crouched by the body offers. “She was shot from behind. Kid over there got the jump on her.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to a boy sitting on the steps of Gilbert Hall, covered in a blanket, talking to a detective.

Castiel studies the body. She’s young. Spots of sulfur dust the omega’s fingertips. The demon possessing her is long gone. Demons can ride a deceased body, keeping it functioning for their purposes, well past the original soul’s departure. Normal bullets don’t even slow demons down, so why did it leave now? Was it summoned away? Did it get bored? Other than the fact that the girl had been possessed, Castiel can’t say anything else for sure.

“Well, that was a bust,” Dean grumbles as they drive away.

Castiel doesn’t reply.

Dean’s phone rings, but after a glance at the caller ID, he doesn’t answer it. Castiel has an idea about who it might be. Someone who would take the more pressing matter of the apocalypse a little more seriously.

“Where is Sam?” he asks.

Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens. He shoves the phone back in his pocket.

“We split up.”

Castiel frowns. “Why?”

Dean shrugs, turning onto the road that leads them back to the motel. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Don’t you think he should know what’s going on? Lucifer is closing in on him, and he’s out there, Dean. Alone. Being separated from you led him to Ruby in the first place–”

“Alright, okay, stop.” Dean heaves a breath, looking angry. “Bobby’s keeping tabs on him, helping him out. In fact, he’s probably calling ‘cuz Bobby just told him all about this mess. He’s not alone. He’s just not with me. We don’t work well together. Now drop it.”

Before Castiel can respond, his phone rings. It’s Sam. Castiel answers.

“Cas,” Sam says without preamble. “I just heard. Are you okay?”

Castiel cocks his head to the side. What a strange, irrelevant question. “Yes. Where are you?”

“Goddamn it,” Dean mutters under his breath.

On the phone, Sam hesitates. “Springfield, Illinois. Are you with Dean?”

“Yes. We’re also in Illinois.”

“I can meet you.” Sam sounds desperate. Hopeful.

Against all judgement, instead of just agreeing, Castiel asks, “Why are you in Springfield?”

“What?” Sam sounds surprised. “There was a case. Demon possession. No rhyme or reason except for a streak of brutal murders. It’s gone now, as far as I can tell.”

“Was the possessed body found with a gunshot wound to the head?”

“What, does he have a case?” Dean asks. “One like ours? Put him on speaker, Cas.”

On the phone, Sam sounds wary. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

“Dean is following a similar case,” Castiel says, ignoring Dean’s muttered curses. When he looks up, he finds that Dean has swung into the parking lot of the motel he’d checked out of barely an hour ago.

“Gimme that,” Dean says, grabbing the phone out of Castiel’s hand and pressing a button. Sam’s voice fills the car.

“... deputy shot him thrice, and claims that he stopped moving after the shot to his head, which is really strange. Going by what we know, this case is a dead end, but it just doesn’t feel over. Something’s off.” Sam pauses, and the phone speaker blares with the horn of a passing truck. “But this can wait. Bobby filled me in on the Heaven situation– that’s much more important. He’s already hit the books, and I’m gonna drive up there to help him.”

“Good call,” Dean grunts. “We’re gonna stick around, see if there’s a connection.”

Sam draws in a sharp breath. “Dean?” In the moment of silence that follows, he seems to recover. “Okay. That’s not a bad idea. Maybe it’s some sort of chain reaction to the angels closing up Heaven. It could be that the demons are getting trapped in the bodies they possess.”

“And, what, a headshot takes them down? Seems a little too convenient.”

“It’s also unlikely,” Castiel interjects.

“Well, what’s your theory?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow at Castiel.

“Your case and Sam’s may well be related, but I think we can rule out a connection to Heaven.”

Sam clears his throat. “Look, guys. We need to work together on this–”

“Sam, stop.” Dean orders. “You wanna help Bobby dig into the lore? Great. I don’t think coming up here to meddle with this case is a good idea.”

“Screw the case, Dean. There won’t be cases to work if this whole apocalypse thing goes sideways. I’m saying that you and Cas should meet me and Bobby in Sioux Falls. It’s all hands on deck. Who knows if something like this is even in the lore? It seems stupid to waste time over a case so small when there aren’t even any demons to interrogate.”

“I have to agree with Sam,” Castiel murmurs, refusing to look away even when Dean gives him an annoyed, betrayed stare.

Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You said it yourself. Something’s not kosher. I’m sticking around until I figure that out. You with me, Cas?”

“Incredible,” Sam mutters in disbelief. “Fine, whatever.”

He hangs up, and Dean rolls his eyes, handing the phone back to Castiel.

“Of course,” Castiel says, resigned.

“What?” Dean’s gaze snaps back to his.

“I’m with you.”

Dean looks away immediately. He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, and clears his throat.

“Right. Alright. I think we should go back to the station,” he suggests, squirming in discomfort before settling down. “They might have some answers for us.”

When they get back on the road, the town is still asleep. There are a few more cars on the road, but they’re all pointed east or south, heading out of DeKalb. The deaths have shattered the peace of the small college town, even though this isn’t the first shooting spree at this university. Castiel listens in silence as Dean narrates this information to him.

The depth of Dean’s research is enlightening. The way he sees it, a case is more than just the details of circumstances and situations. It’s a puzzle of a story, pieced together with effort. He cares so deeply, and that’s why Castiel stays with him.

Even when it seems utterly futile, Dean Winchester fights.

 

 

* * *

 

“Something’s wrong.”

Dean frowns, rubbing his forehead. He settles on his haunches in front of the corpse, studying it. “It’s the kid… who shot that girl. The first possession. It’s him.”

Castiel spares the body a glance before he scours the horizon again. The smell of blood is in the air. Dean called the police, but no one’s here. It’s been five minutes. No sirens, no flashing lights. “Dean, something’s–”

“Yeah, no shit. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Dean stands up and walks a few steps away, surveying the parking lot. The football stadium looms behind them. Everything is peaceful. Silent. Utterly still. The air is different. Thicker.

“The police should be here.”

Finally, Dean looks up. “They’re overwhelmed. Give it a few minutes.” He chews on his lower lip as he circles the boy. “Look. Shot in the head. No sign of sulfur, though. Can you tell if he was possessed?”

“He was.”

“Was it the same one riding the girl, or are we looking at a mass prison break?”

Castiel looks in the face of the dead man. He’s a child. No more than nineteen. It doesn’t warp with the features of a demon. “It’s… gone now. I can’t tell.”

Dean exhales sharply and wipes his mouth. “Okay. Working theory. It’s one demon hopping bodies– but why? It makes no sense. Unless it’s a swarm of demons. And someone’s walking around with the Colt icing them? It seems unlikely, but– hey. Can you get the bullet out of his head?”

This time, Castiel feels the ebb of his grace. He watches Dean frown over the bullet and shake his head.

“No dice.”

A siren whoops in the distance, and the police car jerks onto the street sharply. The officer from earlier stumbles out, face ashen. “Agent Costello. Please hurry. The kids from the dorm, the previous shooting– I– I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“What’s going on?” Dean asks, already walking to the Impala.

“We think they’re working together. They’ve killed– oh.” The officer stops short at the sight of the body behind Dean and curses. “Jesus. I’ve lived in Sycamore and worked in this town my whole life, and I’ve never seen anything like this. I couldn’t explain if I tried, so you just go on ahead to the student center. I have to call this in.”

The drive is short and tense. As they near the towering building, Dean slows the car. There’s a big red bus stopped haphazardly in the middle of the road. The windows are sprayed with blood. Torn limbs litter the sidewalk beside it, and the driver’s side window is smoking.

“What the hell,” Dean mutters, driving around the bus.

As they pass it, Castiel sees heads and faces pressed to the window. And splatters of blood. Everywhere. The carnage continues beyond the bus. The pavement is tracked with blood like someone dragged a body up to the entrance of the student center. There’s police cars parked, lights still flashing.

Someone slams into the side of the car.

“Fuck!” Dean jumps.

It’s a cop. His face is ashen, and one sleeve is drenched in blood. He favors that side and knocks with his free hand, leaving flecks of blood on the window.

“We need help,” he says, all alpha authority. He weaves back to let Dean step out of the car. “Two of my men are dead, and those kids are all– there were too many casualties on the inside. We had no choice but to gun them down. You two got any idea why this is happening?”

Castiel tails after them, surveying the damage. He hears Dean say, “We’re working on it.”

The policeman snorts. “Well, work on it fast. This thing’s escalating every second, and it makes no goddamn sense. What connection do these kids have with the girl? And why are they going on killing sprees?”

Castiel presses his lips together. “It’s demons.”

Before the wounded cop can make sense of that, Dean cuts in. “We have some theories, but it’s too soon to say–”

“Twenty seven people are dead, Agent Costello,” the man says, voice hard. “Two of them are my officers. We’re overwhelmed. We need to know what’s going on, and we need to know now.” He rubs the sweat from his brow.

“And I wanna help,” Dean agrees. “I need everything you got on all these kids. The girl, the boy, these copycats.”

The cop nods, looking wary. “I hope it’s over.”

“It’s only just begun.” Castiel grabs Dean’s arm to stop him from pacing, and points to the floor. It’s one of the boys from the dorm, hanging onto life by a thread.

His eyes are black.

 

 

* * *

 

They drive back to the motel.

The whole town is on lockdown. Every road leading in and out of it is blocked. Police cars dot every intersection, flashing red and blue staccato against the black sky.

Dean is silent until they park at the motel.

“I’ll check us in.”

Castiel doesn’t bother arguing. They’ve spent the better part of the day trawling through the bodies of the dead kids. Castiel has seen worse, but somehow this unsettles him. He can’t see the faces of the demons. He can’t catch traces of their foul effusions. No sulfur. Nothing.

And yet.

Not one of the possessed survived the massacre in the student center. The cops handed over copies of what they could get at such short notice. Only a small percentage of the students were actually in their system. The files contain generally useless documents– transcripts, administrative records from the university, and in one notable case, a job application attached with a letter of recommendation.

Castiel waits outside. Dean returns in a few minutes, looking harried and twirling the room key. He grabs the files from the backseat and pushes open the trunk to snag the duffel stuffed into a corner.

“Got us a twin.”

When Castiel glances at Dean, he looks away. “I don’t sleep.”

Dean clears his throat. “Sam called. He’s reached Bobby’s, so they’re working on the whole stairway to heaven thing.”

“There isn’t a stairway. There are gates, which are quite like portals. I suppose there might–”

“Not a literal stairway.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Can you just unlock the damn door? My hands are a little full.”

Castiel suppresses a sigh and obeys. “What is the plan here, Dean?”

“I don’t know.” Dean elbows him and steps inside, tossing the duffel onto the nearest twin. He sets the files down a little more carefully on the small coffee table in the corner before slumping in the chair by it.

Castiel watches him scrub his face with his hands, and then pull his hair in frustration.

“I was gonna grab a bite, look through this mess, and hope that something jumped out at me.” He leans back in the chair and looks at Castiel for a long moment. His eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark shadows under them. “What are you gonna do?”

Castiel shuts the door behind him, and moves to stare out the window. “I’ll keep watch.”

Dean sighs, and starts moving around. He heads to the bathroom for a while and returns in different clothes. A sweet scent wafts from the bathroom. Castiel tunes it out, or tries to, but it clings to Dean’s skin. He sniffs, head starting to turn in Dean’s direction.

Dean catches him looking and turns pink. He produces a foul spray from the bag and douses the sweet scent out. On the table with the files is a slightly squashed sandwich. He eats it silently while he peruses the files.

After about thirty minutes, he groans. “Can you at least pretend to breathe or fidget a little or something? It’s gettin’ a little creepy with you playing a statue in the corner.”

Castiel doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

Dean keeps talking.

“The way this progressed– it makes no sense. It was like the demons were possessing people that every possessed person came in contact with. Like they were spreading some kind of demon cooties. Is that something that’s even possible?”

“Demon possession is not contagious.”

“Well, not that you know of,” Dean retorts.

Castiel loses his patience. “This is futile. If we don’t stop Lucifer, there will be hundreds of thousands more towns like this. Billions of people. Something is wrong in this town but it is not important right now–”

“It is important.”

“Dean, you’re not looking at the bigger picture–”

Dean slams a fist down. Files cascade to the floor, glossy pictures of dead kids fanning out at his feet. “Don’t you get it, Cas? This is it. There is no picture bigger than the small towns no one gives a shit about. We save them and we save the whole world and everyone in between. That’s how this works. The moment we give up on them– the rest of it? Doesn’t matter. It’s what we do. Save people. And as far as I’m concerned? That whole town out there is full of people that need saving. So I’m gonna do my job. With or without you.”

The window shatters and Castiel jerks back slightly.

There’s a wound in his shoulder. The trench coat is frayed and torn, but blood doesn’t seep from under it. Broken glass glitters in his hair and on his shoulders and at his feet.

It takes him a few moments to realize he’s been shot.

Dean reacts faster. He drops to the ground, and yells at Castiel to take cover. More bullets rain through the open window. Castiel doesn’t move. Instead he stares out.

It’s the policeman from earlier in the day. The one who called them when the omega girl’s body was found. The one who lived here is whole life, and was aghast at the violence. His eyes are black. He empties the clip and doesn’t stop pulling the trigger. He keeps advancing.

There’s a group of people behind him. Their eyes are black. Their faces are human.

“We need to leave. Right now.”

Dean looks up. He’s crouched on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest and his arms covering his head. Blood wells from the tiny cuts on his wrists. There’s broken glass pieces in his forehead, millimeters from his eyes. A second later, his eyes widen in fear, and he reaches to pull Castiel down.

“Cas, look out!”

A knife hits Castiel’s back, the point burrowing deep. He feels the pressure, but no pain. Beneath him, Dean scrambles to get on his hands and knees. He starts to scramble for the front door.

“I’ll cover you,” Castiel says roughly, reaching back to pull the knife out by the hilt. It pulls uncomfortably at the sinews and skin. “Keep moving, Dean.”

The front door slams open.

It’s the Indian man from the front desk.

“Black eyes,” Dean gasps. He whips his head back to see the cop climb in through the shattered window. “They’re all possessed. _Exocizamus te_ –”

Bodies pour in from every direction. Behind the man at the front door, he recognizes their server from earlier in the day. Beyond her, strangers. Townsfolk. The throng of people move as though guided by a singular purpose.

Castiel registers it before Dean: they’re outnumbered.

He grabs Dean’s shoulder, and puts all his energy into fleeing.

 

 

* * *

 

“… He’s bleeding. Do angels bleed?”

“‘Course they fuckin’ do. Shut up and get me the whiskey, I gotta clean this wound.”

Castiel’s vision swims. His grace ebbs, wisps fragmenting into threads and disappearing into the ether. He’s so weak he can’t feel his wings. They probably burned up in the flight.

Stupid. He should’ve tried to conserve his energy. He should’ve listened to Dean.

“He’s up.” Large hands hold him down. “Cas, hey, hold still. It’s Sam. We got you.”

Castiel struggles to sit up. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you’re not gonna be if you don’t stop moving.” Dean pushes him back gently. “I gotta clean this and dig out a bullet. Hopefully it’s not splintered.”

“I can heal myself,” Castiel insists, hissing at the sizzling agony that hits him when the spirits douse his shoulder. “I don’t need–“ The words get trapped around a scream he refuses to let past his clenched teeth. Something hot and sharp pushes into, and then under his skin. The flesh burns and aches at the intrusion.

“Stupid sununvabitch,” Dean mutters, working quickly and efficiently. Something clatters in a bowl. The agony recedes to a dull throb. Dimly, Castiel realizes that Dean has fished the bullet out. His hands are red with blood– Castiel’s blood.

“Thankfully, it was in still in one piece. I think you used up the last of your juice getting us back here.” He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder while Sam heats up a needle. “Sew him up. I’m gonna get some grub.”

Castiel sits up. He glances at the wound and touches the edge of it gingerly. He closes his eyes against the pain.

Sam steps closer. “We’re at Bobby’s.”

“That’s where I aimed for, but I don’t remember… anything…” Castiel clenches his fists, and forces himself to breathe evenly.

“Well, you showed up with Dean in the living room, and then you just collapsed.” Sam dabs at his shoulder with a whiskey-soaked rag and murmurs an apology when Castiel hisses. “I’m gonna stitch you up now.”

Castiel nods. “Did you find anything?”

“No,” Sam says on the tail end of a sigh. “But we’re not giving up. We’re gonna keep looking. There’s gotta be a way.”

From the doorway, Dean snorts. He’s chewing on a sandwich. “Forget about Heaven. They’ll catch up with us. We go after Lucifer.”

“With what?” Sam demands, frustrated. “The Colt’s in the wind. Any other archangel killing weapons you know about just laying around? Go ahead, share with the class, Dean.”

Dean shrugs. “Probably something in the lore.” He nods at Castiel. “You got any ideas? Don’t y’all have a plan or whatever, for when Lucifer gets out? What’s Michael gonna use to fight him?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

The truth is, he probably knew at some point. They must’ve scrubbed it when they slashed his tether to the Host.

“Figures,” Dean mutters. He rolls his eyes and walks away.

Sam finishes suturing the wound. He breaks the thread, and then goes about bandaging Castiel’s shoulder.

“I thought the only thing that worked on you guys was the angel blade,” he says.

Castiel sighs. He might as well let them know he’s useless. It might stop them from charging headfirst into danger.

“My grace is depleted. At this point, I’m more human than angel. That means I lose consciousness, I bleed. I’m forgetting things.”

“Can you fly?”

“… No. My wings burned up.” Probably, but there’s no use speculating.

Sam makes a strangled noise. “That can happen?”

“Yes, and this isn’t the first time.” A notable example was when he pulled Dean out of Hell. “I’m usually able to heal myself.”

“Is there a way to recharge your grace?”

“Unlock the doors to Heaven. Reconnect with the Host.”

“Fuck. I - I mean, Cas, what’re we gonna do?” Sam scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t let Lucifer outta the cage, we wouldn’t be here. I need to fix this.”

It’s not just stupidity. It’s arrogance. Winchester arrogance. Castiel can already see the cogs in Sam’s brains whirring. He thinks he can take on Lucifer. Or that he has to die trying. That leaves them nowhere. It also takes their next best shot– Dean– out of commission.

Castiel decides to nip it in the bud. “It won’t work. Whatever you’re thinking of– it will not work. Lucifer is too powerful. I suggest we lay low and wait for Heaven to act.”

“People are dying, Cas, I can’t just–“

“And they will continue to die after you foolishly sacrifice yourself. Lucifer will destroy this planet.”

Sam heaves a distraught breath, staring at him.

Castiel looks away. He’s exhausted. “I’m going to rest.”

 

 

* * *

 

The days pass, alternatively disruptive and stifling. The mood in Bobby’s house is moody, broken by stormy fits of anger. In the living room, the TV casts an anemic, flickering light, and emits a constant tinny stream of catastrophic news. Bobby’s police blotter fritzes with frenzied exchanges. The phone rings off the hook for days– frantic hunters encountering towns overrun with demons– before petering off into silence.

It doesn’t look good.

Castiel feels worse. It hits him one day, that he’s been in pain. Since he poured the last reserves of his energy into fleeing. Pain under the scabbing wounds. Pain in his head, between his eyes and at the base of his skull. When he takes the stairs down to the panic room, he realizes he has bad knees.

Dean is constantly angry. At everyone. He casts these long, unreadable stares at Castiel, but looks away when he’s caught. Other times, he turns to stone. Castiel hates the miserable, unbearable silences.

The Winchesters fight constantly. Sometimes Bobby breaks them up, and sends them to opposite corners of the house. Sometimes he lets them scuffle. Sometimes he kicks them out.

The arguments wear on Sam. Everyday his lips draw tighter around his teeth. He suppresses his anger by clenching his fists and closing his eyes. He slows his breathing and counts backwards. Then he walks away. He curses and buries himself in a book.

Sometimes, Castiel has to get away from it. The restlessness in the house reeks. It makes his skin crawl. He takes Bobby’s books down to the panic room and reads by the lamplight.

“You hungry?” Dean asks.

Castiel sits up stiffly. He’d been slumped over a table in Bobby’s library. A huge, dry tome split down its spine lies open before him. There’s a pit in his stomach, but he insists, “I don’t eat.”

“I brought you a sandwich anyway.”

Castiel sighs, taking the plate from Dean and setting it aside. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean eyes him for a moment. “Stretch. It’ll help.” He raises his arms above his head and interlocks the fingers and pushes.

“I don’t–“

“Just do it.”

Castiel sighs and copies the movement. Something in his shoulder pops audibly. His back arches and he pushes higher before relaxing with a sigh. Dean was right.

“Thank you.”

Dean doesn’t respond. He thumbs through the book in front of Castiel. He frowns. “What is this? This language?”

“Ancient Greek.”

Dean runs his fingers over the print. “Cas, tell me the truth. Is the answer in here? Is this– Is there a point to this? I mean, I don’t have a fucking clue. Do we have a chance or are we just sitting her twiddling our thumbs while out there-“ His voice shakes. He’s angry. Scared.

“I don’t know.” Castiel looks away.

A loud thud shakes the table. The book is on the floor, a few leaves sticking out strangely.

“Hey, watch it!” Bobby snaps, entering the room.

“We don’t have time for a fucking book club,” Dean fumes. “The world is _ending_ –"

“Ya think I don’t know that?” Bobby picks up the book and starts assessing the damage. “I’m answering the calls from hunters that are dying out there. Stopping you and your idjit brother from running after archangels. I get it. Quit whining.”

“The answer isn’t in some book.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “So what do you wanna do? Run out there outgunned and stare down the devil?”

“Cas, you know,” Dean implores. “You know we’re not gonna find the answer in here. There isn’t one. “

They both turn to look at him. Dean is desperate. He wants an answer but Castiel doesn’t have one. He finally admits what they’ve all suspected for some time now. As much as he doesn’t want to crush Dean’s hopes, he can’t let Dean entertain the notion that he’s useful any longer.

“I can’t help you. I don’t know anything, Dean. I’m forgetting things. I’ve lost my grace. My wings.”

Bobby sighs, shaking his head. Dean is silent for a long moment. Frustration washes over his features, then anger. For a brief moment… guilt? Maybe pity? But he says nothing and storms back upstairs.

 

 

* * *

 

Castiel wakes with a start.

He realizes that the sound that woke him was a door slamming shut somewhere below. Squinting against the sunlight streaming in from under the curtains, he rubs the grit from his eyes.

Distinctly, he realizes he hears shouting. Another door slams. Something crashes heavily to the ground, and Castiel feels the reverberations through his bed. It doesn’t sound dangerous. Some of the tightness in his shoulders dissolves. It’s strange to realize that he physically _feels_ tension and relief.

He’d better get downstairs.

Taking stock of himself, he’s grateful to find he’d had the sense to slept in pajamas. Dean had handed over a pair that Castiel suspects originally belonged to Bobby. They’re pinstriped blue, and they’re both too loose and too short for him, but they do the job.

Sleeping is still generally disorienting, and Castiel struggles to remember the sequence of events that lead up to it. Or even how he eventually manages to sleep. Or where he is and what he was doing when he wakes up. As a result, the past month has been taxing. Dean grumbles that he has no cycle, and that it’s frustrating because Castiel tends to fall asleep when he’s exhausted, instead of every night like a normal person. Which means he’s asleep at the most inopportune times.

By the time Castiel gets downstairs in the next three minutes, the shouting has ceased. Briefly. He waits on the last step when he sees Sam cross the living room.

“And where the hell do you think you’re going?” Dean demands, storming past the stairs.

Sam is already at the front door, hitching a duffle over his shoulder. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just– out. Anywhere but here.” Sam fumes, but instead of leaving, he turns around. “How long are you gonna keep this up, Dean? You can’t chain me here. You’re gonna have to trust me at some point.”

“I don’t have to do anything. Trust isn’t for traitors.”

A sinew in Sam’s jaw pulses as he works to bite his tongue. Castiel sees the hurt and anger in his eyes. The way Sam physically braces himself and stands taller in defiance.

“Fine. Whatever. I’m not spending another rut locked in a room listening to you bitch.”

“You walk out that door–“

“And what?” Sam scoffs. “Don’t bother coming back? You’re really gonna go there.”

Dean shrugs. “If that’s what it takes. You’re headed out the door jonesing for a hit of demon blood for when–“

Sam growls and a burnt smell fills the room. His eyes are wild, and he’s all but foaming at the mouth in rage. He’s nothing like himself. Castiel sees the darkness in Sam take hold of the reigns and recoils from it.

“For the hundredth time, I’m in a rut and I want some fucking privacy. I’m headed to a motel to take care of myself, not spread my legs for an archangel like some heat-hungry omega whore–“

A resounding slap cracks through the air. Sam hobbles back, clutching his cheek. Dean stands before him, hand still half raised, breathing hard.

Something charged ripples through the room and Castiel grips his head against the ache it brings on. He struggles to understand what’s happening, but all he knows is that he has the inexplicable urge to cower on the floor with his tail between his legs and whimper. Sam appears to be similarly affected. The darkness flickers away, and in its place his features are a grimace of remorse.

“Dean, I’m sorry–“

“Get out.” Dean’s voice is quiet, but deadly.

“I didn’t mean it like–“

“Get. Out.”

They both turn to look at him, and Castiel realizes he’s uttered a sound. He’s made the mistake of opening his mouth and the intensity– no, the feeling grows and overpowers him and drives him to his knees.

Sam’s jaw clicks shut and he casts one last imploring glance at Dean before he leaves.

Dean stares at the shut door for a moment, clenching his fists at his sides. He takes a few stabilizing breaths and then turns to face Castiel. As he walks by, Castiel is overcome with the urge to touch him. To comfort him. Castiel ignores the urge.

A few hours pass and Castiel is finally able to lift himself off the ground.

When he enters the kitchen Bobby wordlessly hands him a mug. Castiel doesn’t bother protesting. He takes a sip and realizes that it’s coffee doctored with whiskey. Strangely, he finds it… fortifying.

“I keep telling that kid to get a grip, but this time… Sam had it coming to him.” Bobby flips morosely through some notes on the table. He glances at Castiel. “Didn’t think it’d get to you, though.”

 _Because you’re an angel_ , remained unsaid.

Castiel avoids the topic deftly. “Will Sam return?”

Bobby fixes him with a beady stare for a moment, but eventually he sighs. “Not for a few days. Knowing the Winchester temper tantrums, it’ll take a while before they figure out how to forgive each other. Takes a stupidly long time, but they always get there in the end.”

Castiel considers this for a moment. It’s true enough. Something else pricks at his curiosity.

“What’s a rut?”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Nope. You know how to use the internet.”

“I know what it is. The human biological drive to procreate. My question is- what does it involve? Why does Sam need to be alone–“

“Not gonna give you a biology lesson. Crack open a book or look it up.”

Castiel suppresses the lick of irritation. “Fine. Why don’t I have a rut?”

Bobby sighs, thoroughly put upon, and snaps his book shut. “Frickin’ christ. You’re really gonna do this. Probably ‘cuz you don’t have the parts.”

“My vessel does. I checked.”

“Maybe you’ve still got enough juice to separate you from the apes.”

Castiel looks at his hands. “No, I don’t.”

There’s a beat of silence. Bobby closes his eyes. Castiel takes a huge gulp of his laced coffee and tries to pretend he doesn’t sense Bobby’s acute disappointment.

“You’re human.”

“You knew.” Castiel doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory.

“I suspected.” Bobby wipes a hand over his face and sighs before admitting, “Dean dosed you with suppressants. Wanted to avoid this conversation, I’m sure. Probably wanted to spare you the discomfort, too. It can be overwhelming. And painful. It doesn’t matter; he should’ve told you.”  
  
A heaviness settles over Castiel. It’s a cold, wet dread. It’s one thing to walk around pretending he’s still an angel, but now he realizes they’ve known all along that he’s lost his powers. He’s not an angel, but Castiel realizes numbly that he’s not quite human either.

“I don’t care,” he says truthfully. “He did the right thing.”

 

 

* * *

 

Dean locks himself away from the weekend.

Castiel ventures close once to check if Dean was okay, and to ask if he’d eaten. He stops short in the hallway. A cloying, sweet scent filters through the cracks between the hinges, and under the door. It arrests Castiel in his steps. He spends a few minutes trying to draw that essence into himself before he catches himself. It takes him a long time to walk away.

Halfway into the week, Dean emerges, looking rumpled and tired, but freshly showered. When Castiel follows his nose to the kitchen, he finds Dean in a robe, cooking up burgers. Dean doesn’t acknowledge him, but he brings two plates to the table.

“How was– are you okay?” Castiel asks, switching tracks mid-question.

Dean ignores him.

“Sam hasn’t returned.”

“Good.”

“Bobby left yesterday to try and track him down. He hasn’t been answering his phone–“

“I don’t care.” Dean glowers at his sandwich. “Just let it go, Cas. Let him go.”

“Go where?”

“I dunno. Go fuck himself. Go – and say yes to Lucifer. What does it matter anymore?”

“It matters a great deal, Dean,” Castiel says seriously. “Together, we barely stand a chance, but if Lucifer occupies Sam’s body, you know the results will be catastrophic.”

Dean grabs his plate and stands up. “I don’t need to deal with this shit.”

“Dean, this is stupid. Whatever Sam said, I’m sure he didn’t mean–“

“No. You don’t know what he said. You don’t know what he meant. You don’t get it. And – just– it doesn’t matter, anyway. This isn’t just about him running his dumb mouth. This has been a long time coming. This is Ruby, and the demon blood, and a lifetime of chasing after him, and every shitty thing on the long list of betrayals. If he wants to come back, he knows where to find us.”

Dean takes a breath and sets the plate down. His hands shake. He looks like he’s debating storming out of the room.

Castiel considers his options. Continuing to talk about this is only going to antagonize Dean more. They have time. The world will still be ending next week.

“Okay,” Castiel sighs. “I think I found a lead.”

It’s true. He’d found it by accident, in a moment of boredom.

Dean looks at him balefully as he sits down. “Yeah? What is it?”

“There’s a book of witchcraft called the Book of the Damned. No one’s seen it in a millennia. There’s no mention of it anywhere except in a single passage from a medieval hunter’s journal. He mentions that the witch he killed possessed the book, and among its many secret treasures was a spell to trap the devil. However, he couldn’t read it, and it was stolen from him before he could decipher it.”

“A devil’s trap? Really? That’s your big lead?”

Castiel suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Barely. “I suppose a better translation would be, ‘to contain,’ or ‘to lock away.’”

“Yeah, it would be.” Dean rubs his forehead. “It’s slim, but it’s worth a shot. Let’s hunt this book down. You’d still be able to translate, right?”

Castiel hasn’t lost his grasp on languages yet. He still thinks in Enochian, and he spent the afternoon translating an Aramaic text.

“Yes,” he says, with a measure of confidence.

Dean nods, looking marginally hopeful. He scarfs down his burger. “This is good. It’s pretty good, Cas. You did good.”

The praise feels good. Castiel can admit that much to himself. He’s spent stifling months feeling utterly useless, and now he’s found something. He’s useful without his powers. It’s reassuring. As dismal as things look, Castiel can’t help but also feel a little hopeful. They might just be able to pull this off. And yet, it just doesn't feel right.

“Dean.” Castiel hesitates. “I’m sorry about Sam.”

Dean grits his teeth, but relaxes a few moments later. He clears their dishes away. Castiel thinks he’s going to be ignored again, but Dean eventually sighs.

“Yeah, me too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> this story is a bitch and a half to write. i mean 3 years in the writing and all i've got to show for it is this because it went through only about a hundred iterations lol


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